


Knit Night

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Headcanon, Knitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first rule of knit night is.... Spike told Riley he had knitting needles he could loan out. AFAIC, this is 100% true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knit Night

**Author's Note:**

> Quickie fic to settle a headcanon, though this group will be playing a major part in a future fic.

Spike nodded to the bartender, a sleazy fellow with a forked tongue, and snagged a bottle on his way to the back room, letting his disdainful glare sweep over the demonic patrons of the grungy bar. One or two looked like they might take issue with his attitude, but he puffed out his chest and put a little extra swing in his swagger, and they subsided onto their stools as he shoved through the battered door, locking it behind him with a dramatic SNICK.

Clem was there, of course, and the other regulars. There was a new fellow though, blue and spiny, watery eyes defiant, and Spike looked down his nose at him, letting a little growl bubble up from his throat. “And just who do we have here?”

Clem stood up. “This is G’krashnelkor, of the Shunkar clan. I can vouch for him. He’s… He’s one of us.” The others in the room nodded nervously, eyes darting about.

Spike eyed G’Krashnelkor a bit longer, then shrugged and settled in his seat with a swish of black leather. “Trust your judgment, Clem. Welcome aboard.” His eyes traveled around the room challengingly. “So, what’s the game?” The room fell silent, somehow reverent.

Clem held up his two index fingers, crossed. G’krashnelkor followed suit, then another, then another, until all of the demons in the room were making The Sign. Spike looked at them all, like a feudal lord surveying his demesne, then raised his own two fingers and crossed them. A collective sigh spread through the room.

Then all of them started rummaging in the bags and baskets and knapsacks they had brought, pulling out skeins of yarn and needles and half-finished projects. The room filled with the sound of aluminum needles clacking together. Knit Night was now in session.

“Spike,” Clem was saying, his voice open and friendly as always. “I’ve been having trouble with that lace stitch. You know, the one you taught us last time? The yarn keeps twisting when I purl, and it just doesn’t look right. See the ridges?” Clem held out his project, a lacy scarf in a warm maroon that set off his pinkish skin to perfection. Spike looked at it judiciously. 

“Let me see you try the stitch.” Clem sat next to Spike and started to knit. Spike rolled his eyes. “Clem, the problem is that you knit like an American.”

“But I am American. I even pay taxes.”

Spike cursed viciously. (He would feel bad, because Clem was a good sort, but cursing was an important part of the knitting lifestyle.) “Here, even for an American you’re doing it wrong. You need to stick the needle in from this direction.” He demonstrated for Clem for a few repeats of the pattern; Clem nodded in understanding, taking the needles back and beginning to knit with enthusiasm.

A few kittens, probably left over from the last poker game, started pawing at yarn balls under their feet. As if by mutual accord, nobody complained. On Poker Night, they were the ante, possibly the snacks, but on Knit Night, they were just cute. 

“So,” Spike said amiably, picking up his eternally unfinished lace shawl, the one that went with Buffy’s eyes. “What did you fellows think about Passions today?”

The room erupted in enthusiastic debate.


End file.
